


R

by twelvepercentofaplan



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Doppelganger, Found Family? Sorta?, Gen, Team as Family, The ending is mostly angsty but whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:56:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3213305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twelvepercentofaplan/pseuds/twelvepercentofaplan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being accused of stealing important property, Rocket learns that someone out in the galaxy is walking around with the looks of someone he knows: Rocket himself. And over the course of many weeks, Rocket finally tracks down the target, the key to answering the question: is he alone in the universe? He receives an answer, but not in the way he wishes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	R

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I should've finished a few days ago. Trying to fuel my creative juices for a BIG project between me and divisionten.
> 
> Look out for that in the coming week. Maybe later than sooner. I'm having trouble starting my half of the bargain... the struggle is real.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy friends.

History is one of those things that everyone has stapled to their heels. Whether we like it or not, we have a past, a present, a future, and the past is a haunting thing. You’ll regret what you wore weeks ago, what you said three years past to a good friend of yours, hate yourself for being the way you were. We all do it. Even without a tragic backstory (ie: see “Drax the Destroyer”, “Rocket”, “Ga-all of them, okay?), everyone looks back and wonders who they could have been, who they could be. Where do they belong? If home is where the heart is, than where the fuck is there heart even at?

None of us are ever alone.

Even Rocket isn’t. He just doesn’t understand that yet.

The scene? A bar, Angela’s, just outside the Bernelius sector on a planet called Rigel Seven. 9-55 on the clocks, a Saturday night fever sweeping throughout the bar. Of course, it’s not a Saturday in space. That’s just a common phrase that Drax has picked the habit up of using now and again just because he’s heard Peter say it now and then. It’s the perfect description for the tone of the night, too. Fun, energetic, buzzing with the constant feeling that something big and bombastic is coming soon.

That was how it was going for Rocket and Groot, both of whom sit at the bar together with drinks in their hands. Rocket’s found a few nice fellas who aren’t the Guardians and decided to drink with them for the night. Drax and the other two are somewhere within the establishment, and Rocket would rather keep it that way. The appearance of the other three could bring about some sort of inner annoyance in Rocket for whatever reason.

So they sit, drink, Rocket’s telling the story of the time Groot got his arm stuck in the airlock door. And then approaches the bulk of a man with beady red eyes, a shiny coat of white, thick fur, and tusks for teeth. They’re not real tusks or anything, but they’re seriously enormous for pearly whites.

“And so then I’m like ‘H-Hey! Groot! Hopefully ya don’t pull it outta your air-socket!’” Rocket laughs out loud, pounding the table with a fist. The others fall silent, giving him a look that says, “Was that really meant to be funny?” “Alright, I know, not **_that_** funny now, but in the moment it was frickin’ hilarious. Seriously, he-hey, dude, what gives?”

What doesn’t give is the relentless shoving from the hairy man’s part. “You. On Xandar two weeks ago. Stole my Iso-8 case.”

Rocket raises an eyebrow. “Huh?” Two weeks ago, Rocket was off on a space mission involving strict Nova-based recon no one can know about aside from the Guardians. It’s highly top classified material. “Haven’t been to Xandar in a good long while, man. Get your sausage fingers off’a me.”

“Lies. It had to be you. That Iso-8 was worth a thousand credits!”

Rocket guffaws. “Yeah, okay. Sure. Ya know another guy who looks like me? Coz-okay, seriously?” The shoving really needs to stop. “Look, ya ugly, hairy bastard, I didn’t do shit t’ you.”

“You stole my Iso-8 on Xandar!”

“Groot, we were off on a job for Nova, what, a month ago?” Groot thinks for a moment before nodding up and down. “See? Don’tcha know me ‘n’ Groot from anywhere?” Rocket asks. It should be fairly obvious that they are two fifths of the team with the worst name in the entire galaxy.

But the red-eyed monster presses on. “It was **_you_**! Liar!”

“I am Groot?” Groot roughly states as he rises from his spot with an angry look. _He did not steal anything from the likes of you, sir. I suggest you leave_.

“What’s the walkin’ bookshelf gonna do?” the Yeti-man spits. “Don’t introduce yourself to me! I don’t care about your name or about this little vermin here!”

Rocket grinds his teeth together.

“Groot? The thing.”

And so Groot does “the thing.” Roots and vines wrap tightly around the man’s limbs in a flurry of bark and plant appendages. Red-Eyes struggles for a moment before his head is slammed against the bar, held there by Groot’s massive, wooden palm. The patrons on either end of the bar look on in surprise, many backing away once they see Rocket draw his weapon and point it directly at the man’s forehead.

“Ya listen here, buddy,” Rocket says with fury, “I didn’t do shit to you. Never seen your ugly mug a day in my life.” The raccoon jabs his target’s forehead with the barrel of the gun. “Whaddaya mean ya saw me on Xandar?”

“You stole my Iso-8!” the man persists. “You stole it!”

“Yeah? Well, wanna hear an enormous plot twist in your lil’ theory, ya big lug? It wasn’t me!”

“Then if it wasn’t you, who the hell else would it be? Another furry rat like yourself?”

“Yeah, probably a guy who looks just like me! Gotta be coz-”

Time stops. Rocket lowers his weapon slowly as he gapes on in sudden, blissful realization. He hadn’t been on Xandar in months. Sure, the crew may have gone their to refuel once or twice, but Rocket never left the ship. But this man, this furry creature who really shouldn’t be out in Xandar’s sun with a coat of fur this thick, had his Iso-8 stolen by Rocket.

But… Rocket wasn’t there. That’s been stated time and time again.

So who the _**fuck**_ was?

“I am Groot?” Groot questions. _Should I release him from my grasp?_

It takes Rocket a moment to process Groot’s question. He gives a quick, nervous nod as he swallows hard. Groot releases the man who gives them a deathly glare with his beady, red eyes before striding off with an angry swagger after stumbling backwards from the tree in fear for his well being.

“I am Groot?” _Why would he think you stole his precious minerals? You have not set foot on Xandar in many weeks_.

Rocket blinks a few times as the tiniest hint of a smirk comes to his face. His eyes grow wide and his knees go weak out of the sudden adrenaline rush that hits with the realization.

There’s another one like him.

* * *

 

The good thing about the Nova Corps is that they have a keen eye for these sort of events. Although a minor incident like a robbery is not uncommon on Xandar, a robbery of Iso-8 deserves at least some attention on Nova’s behalf. Iso-8 is a rare, unprocessed mineral usually found deep in old caves and is usually picked up by minors since it tends to be stuck deep beneath crevices and rocks. And since learning of the tusked-man’s tragedy, they have been scouring across the galaxy trying to find the culprit.

So when Rocket calls Nova Prime, acting with utmost respect because he actually admires this woman to a certain extent, she seems genuinely shocked that Rocket’s hot on the trail himself and that they may have at least a decent description of the suspected thief.

“Says I stole his case’a Isos. No, he didn’t just say it. He insisted it again and again and again,” Rocket goes on. “Now I can totally see myself doin’ that. Stealin’ stuff’s in my genetics, I guess. Easy stuff. But the thing is I _**didn’t**_ take it from him.”

“Are you positive?” Prime responds, taken aback somewhat by Rocket’s bragging of thievery and the simplicity of it.

“Haven’t set foot on Xandar in months, ma’am,” Rocket confirms with a nod. “Last time was when we came to pick up our pay. But Tusky says the guy looks just like me.”

“Aside from catching this thief and returning the man’s precious Iso-8, what do you want from me? I am fairly positive you aren’t too concerned with Mr. Xemnu’s situation.”

“That’s right,” Rocket agrees. Seriously, screw ‘Xennu’ and his issue. “If it ain’t too much trouble, could ya import the security footage of that particular event? It’s rather important to me that I have it.”

“What purpose will it-”

“I wanna track the guy down and I need any possible source of information that can get me to him,” Rocket says. “I mean… ain’t nothin’ like me in the galaxy. And if there’s another guy or girl or whatever, maybe we can…” Rocket shrugs. “I just need an answer’s all. Halfworld did a number on me and if there’s another one, maybe we can help each other.”

“We have our officers posted at every corner of the galaxy,” Prime says. “If we catch the criminal, we can definitely inform you before he is taken in for questioning and delivery to Prison 42.”

“That’s the thing,” Rocket says. “I can bag ‘im for ya for free if ya gimme this information. I just wanna chance t’ actually talk to ‘im before he gets taken in for theft.” He gives Prime a look that begs for his question to be answered with what he wants to hear.

“It is,” Prime begins after a moment of quiet thought and hesitation, “not an issue. In the next hour, I will have Dey retrieve any and all data on that day uploaded to your ship’s database as soon as possible. And if any of our officers or myself have any updates on the crime for you, I will have Dey call you himself and let you know.”

Rocket gives a genuine smile. “Gah, shit, that’s frickin’ perf-I mean, ahem... Thank you, Nova Prime.”

“Glad to be of service.”

The call ends with the closing of the screen.

* * *

 

It’s such simple footage.

Tusky (as Rocket’s come to call him) starts walking down the road with a silver case under his arm. Maybe he’s whistling, maybe he’s thinking about his wife, maybe he’s about to go buy some uber expensive drug and shoot up in the alley. Who knows? All he’s doing is minding his own business like any other normal citizen.

There is a blur of deep purple that flashes by and knocks Tusky to the ground and a struggle ensues. It’s a fight that should involve the tusk-faced Yeti of a man coming out on top. But after a few minutes of struggling, something flashes and Tusky’s out like a light. The purple-robed figure kneels down and reaches out a hand to grab up the metal case.

And that’s what Rocket’s fixated on. He’s had the footage paused on that hand for the longest of times.

 _ **His**_  hand.

It’s the only part of the furry creature’s body he’s managed to snag a look at, but it’s proof in Rocket’s head. It’s an exact replica of his entire wrist, his fingers, his palms. Razor sharp nails accompanied by a strange, wiggling motion that Rocket tends to do himself.

It has to be one of his kind.

But the being looks to be much taller than Rocket, having at least another two and a half feet on Rocket. At least that’s Rocket’s estimated measurements. Tusky was about eight or so feet tall. This guy looks to be just up to the furry man’s chest. Rocket was just barely past the white, abominable creature’s knee.

It doesn’t make _**any**_ sense.

Two weeks since Rocket called Nova, and he’s never stopped mulling over this footage like it’s his favorite song. He plays it again and again, watching the spectacle of the claw unfold like it’s the greatest film he’s ever seen. They sent files and the report from Tusky (Rocket just likes that name more than anything) to Rocket as well, and the description is uncanny to what Rocket’s seeing, purple hood aside.

Of course, Rocket wouldn’t consider himself a “rat-like monster with sharp teeth, a tail, and a gun.” He’d consider himself a “badass guy with sharp teeth, a tail, and many, many guns.”

Tonight’s no different than the other nights. Rocket sits in the cockpit with the tablet in his palms, wearing his usual sleepwear as if he is about to head to bed and sleep on these thoughts and ideas. But he’s not tired. He’s restless. He finds himself getting up even earlier in the mornings as well. The chance that there’s someone out there like him, a being just like himself, is such an exciting prospect to the raccoon.

He isn’t alone in the universe.

That was the weight he always bore deep in his chest. “Ain’t no thing like me ‘cept me,” he’d say with pride. But that quote can be painful, even when it’s said with a crooked grin and in a cocky tone of voice. Being the only one of a kind in an entire system of many stars and sectors and planets and ships is cruel. The universe is cruel to little things like Rocket and always has been. The universe has often been cruel to Rocket and always will be. With his creation, his ‘birth’ also being a death in the same day with the lost of his preserved innocence as a normal Earth raccoon. Being ridiculed again and again for his looks. Losing Groot.

Maybe this guy will share a history and life experience similar to Rocket’s.

“Watching it again?”

Rocket turns around and meets Drax the Destroyer’s gaze after he jumps slightly at the booming voice. He can’t find the right words, but he does manage a nod. “Y-Yeah.” That’s about it, really.

“Friend, I do not wish to bring your spirits down,” Drax says as he approaches Rocket’s side, “but I feel this idea is a tad unbelievable.”

Rocket wrinkles his nose. “Whaddaya mean by that?”

“You have told us time and time again that there is nothing like you, besides you,” Drax says. “For a creature of a similar shape and look to appear out of nowhere seems… impossible.”

“What? Ya got a problem with me keepin’ my hopes up?”  
“Do not bare your teeth at me, friend,” Drax raises his voice a tad. “It is enjoyable to see you in a happier state of mind at the prospect of more of your kind being around. Your pleasant moods have set a less stressful air on the ship. The tensity around you is low. The last time you insulted Peter was last week.”

Rocket doesn’t say anything, curling his tail up around his leg as he looks back at the hand on the screen.

“However,” Drax continues, “I wish to inform you to never count the chickens before they hatch.”

Count the chickens before they hatch? “What’s a chicken?” Rocket asks with a laugh breaking between his words.

“It is a metaphor,” Drax says, squinting his eyes slightly at the word, “that Peter has informed me of. It is meant to mean ‘do not blur your reality with delusions with unforeseeable outcomes.’ I find it to be one of my favorite sayings that he has adorned us with.”

“Right,” Rocket says with a dismissive wave. “Go away, shirtless. I got stuff to do.”

“You have no reason to use such hypocritical statement as an insult, Rocket. You are topless as well.”

Is that even hypocritical for Rocket to call Drax ‘shirtless’ when he isn’t wearing one himself? Sounds more like an observation, but Rocket just assumes that Drax is trying to joke with him. “You’re topless up in that head’a yours,” Rocket quips.

“Was that meant to be a joke about my lack of hair?” Drax says, and the implicated gruffness in his tone just shows Rocket the brute is joking.

Rocket smiles at Drax’s example of exactly what Rocket had just implied. He keeps his eyes locked onto that disconcertingly human-like hand as he zooms in closer, saying, “Took the words right outta my mouth, Drax.”

Before Drax goes off to sleep for the night, he gives Rocket a few strokes on his head. Rocket pretends not to notice but he wishes the brute would come back and do it again.

He likes it. It’s nice.

Rocket keeps himself set on reality for only another moment before he begins to obsess over the hand again.

* * *

 

Quill only showed concern for Rocket’s constant “up all night and obsess over this criminal” activities when he found the procyon passed out once. Now this isn’t anything unusual. Once he found Rocket sleeping in the pilot’s seat, another time in his bed (why Rocket was in his room, he’ll never know), and another time underneath of the table in the main room. Sprawled out, drooling, looking like a fool.

But add a bomb to Rocket’s palm that’s slowly ticking away, putting everyone at risk of a great, explosive, messy death. That’s how Peter found him this time.

“Rocket?” Peter prods the raccoon with his foot lightly. “Rocket?”

“-lame ass revenge scheme,” Rocket mumbles as he stretches on the ground. Revenge scheme? Probably a dream or something. “The hell’s tha’ beepin’, Quill?”

“The bomb in your hand.”

“Wha’ bomb in m’-oh _**shit**_!” Rocket suddenly springs to life, pulls a plug off the top of the metal casing in his hand, and the beeping fades with a high pitched whine. “Close one,” Rocket grumbles as he gives a wide yawn. “Any word from Dey yet?”

“Dude,” Peter gives Rocket a look of bewilderment as his hands pull at his curly hair, “you just almost blew us up and the first thing you wanna know about is if Dey called?!”

Rocket opens his mouth to say something but quickly shuts it.

“Rocket! Say something!”

“Well, it is **_just_** an EMP,” Rocket mumbles in his defense.

“It’s still a bomb! And those screw you up almost worse than an actual explosion, you jackass.”

“You’re still a Star-Lord but you’re still an idiot,” Rocket quips.

“That wasn’t even a good comeback.”

“Shuddup.” Rocket rises to his feet tiredly and pulls at his flightsuit that’s bunching up near the waist. “Did he call though?”

Peter shakes his head, to which Rocket gives a defeated sigh. “It’s been a couple of weeks, Rocket,” Peter says. “You know how criminals are. Slip under the radar, go missing for a little while. Give it time. Raccoon boy’ll screw up soon and-”

There it is again. For a second time. That ‘R’ word. “Raccoon?” Rocket says with a confused expression. “What’s a _**raccoon**_?”

Peter blinks. “Uh,” he says, holding the one syllable word for about five seconds. “Look,  I’m just saying that you should calm down? Look at you, man. You’re tired. You clonked out in that box. You’re happier and all, but not sleeping all night and thinking like this is just a little unhealthy. Groot’s been worrying about you.”

“Why? How the hell d’ya even know that, Quill?”

Peter points toward the holoscreen on the wall. “Typed up what he wanted to say to me on that screen. We had a nice conversation about salads, too.”

“Oh.”

“Didn't know he could grow fruit, either. He offered to make us food sometime if we get the necessary ingredients. But Dervin leeks and Xandarian tomatoes aside, Groot just doesn’t want to see you get so hyped up just to get thrown back down again,” Peter says with a shrug. “No one does, honestly.”

“Drax told me the same thing,” Rocket says as he fiddles with the useless bomb in his hands. “Doesn’t want me gettin’ to hyped up over… just a chance.” The raccoon gives a nasally sigh. “But, I mean, it’s a big one, Pete. Ya know how I feel ‘bout the chances.”

Quill puts his hands on his hips and bites his lip. “Yeah, definitely is. Just be careful, okay? You ready for dinner? Drax is nearly done cooking.”

“Uh, yeah,” Rocket says, dropping the cylinder to the ground. “Nappin’ and then wakin’ up right to Drax’s food? Perfect life. Is it waffles, though?”

Rocket keeps the “raccoon” at bay for a bit. Food’s waiting.

* * *

 

They’re both doing the dishes when Rocket brings it up to Groot.

“Quill tells me you’re scared for me.”

“I am _**Groot**_.” _I told him to keep quiet about that._

“Well, he didn’t. And we both know you’d tell me this at some point.” Rocket is silent for a moment. “Why? What’s everyone’s deal with me lookin’ for this douche? Gamora hasn’t said shit to me about it.”

Groot straightens his back slightly. “I-I am Groot.” _Because it seems ridiculous, Rocket_.

Rocket growls. “ _ **Ridiculous**_?”

“I am Groot!” _Do **not** growl at me! I do not mean it like that_. Groot drops one of the plates he’d been scrubbing and gives a rough sigh. “I am Groot…?” _Do you not understand our confusion?_

Rocket rolls his eyes, turns off the tap, and lets the porcelain coffee mug fall into his side of the sink with a series of clunks. “Alright. I’m waitin’. Go on.”

And in a series of “I am Groots”, distressed looks, and fantastic hand gestures on Groot’s end, the tree says the following:

_For someone of your species, of your **kind** , to suddenly pop up is unusual. When you were… made, it seems plausible that you were the only one that succeeded. Don’t give me that look. I am not being rude to you. For all the information you have gathered, there is no sign pointing toward the idea that this creature, this “procyon” is like you in the slightest. This could very well be an imposter, someone who wants us dead. Someone who wants you dead. This obsession with this other… ‘you’ is wearing us down. Do you see, Rocket? It is not that we are wishing a great demise upon your dream, but we are all **worried** for you._

By the time Groot’s finished talking, Rocket’s fists are clenched tightly at his sides, anger is pouring out of his eyes, and he looks ready to scream at the top of his lungs.

“What you’re implyin’,” Rocket says through grinding gums, “is that ya think I’m followin’ a false lead?”

Groot shakes his head. “I am-” _Rocket, no. I-_

“Ya think this is just a frickin’ joke ‘r somethin’?” When Rocket only receives silence from Groot, he hops off of the stack of boxes he’d been using to reach the sink and strides off angrily. “Finish ‘em yourself. Got work to do.”

Rocket’s work involves nothing but keeping his bedroom door locked while he thinks of Groot’s monologue with anger on his soul. And yes, he was also mulling over the clawed hand again.

* * *

 

Another week passes at an alarmingly slow rate, scraping by with its nails dug deep into the ground. It’s been a tiring week. Mission after mission after mission for three days straight. They never got a break. Clients are clients and time is money.

When Rocket checks the Milano’s database after sleeping normally for one night out of pure exhaustion, he finds two attachments.

The first is a message from Dey. “Hey, uh, guys, Quill,” the man stutters as he looks between the camera and something in his hands. “This is mostly for Rocket, but if anyone else wants to see it, uh, no biggy. I honestly don’t know /why/ Nova Prime wishes for me to-not the point.” Rocket snickers at the man’s babbling. “So, here’s the deal. Our Iso-8 thief has been sighted again, this time on… Knowhere? Yes, Knowhere. The Chief Head of Security informed us that the, uh, “Purple Robed Thief” was spotted by one of their security drones two nights ago near a bar called Funtzel’s at 9:55, Knowhere time. And the night after, he was sighted in the same area, although a bit later, 10:20, Knowhere time. Usually we would have Cosmo send-seriously what guy’s name is Cosmo? Knowhere has security now? Why wasn’t I briefed on any of this? I swear…” Dey clears his throat. “...Anyways! Due to strict orders given by Nova Prime that we inform you first, you have one day to-”

Rocket stops playing the message as his heart beat begins to pick up drastically. And not only the speed of the beat, but the intensity as well. Rocket can hear it in his ears, his stomach feels queasy, his hands shaky.

He’s on Knowhere.

And that’s not too far from where they are now.

Rocket looks around. The ship is silent, dead silent, and it only seems logical that he should take this opportunity while he can.

So he heads up to the cockpit and punches in a few keystrokes to find the exact time on Knowhere this moment.

8:40.

The distance from here to Knowhere? At least an hour’s worth of time.

Rocket smirks, punches in the coordinates for Knowhere, and waits patiently for the next hour to pass by smoothly.

And it passes rapidly.

* * *

 

Sitting in Funtzel’s is not all too boring for Rocket. He’s got a drink in his hand (a Timothy, thank you very much) as he sits near the back by himself in a tiny booth for four. His observant eyes flick around as a Centaurian passes by drunkenly, spilling a blue-colored drink all over himself as he goes to give a girl a hug with one arm. He tries kissing her, but she only gives him a firm slap across the mouth.

Rocket chuckles into his drink as she stomps off and the man gives a confused look. “Honey-hick-where are ya goin’?!” he calls out in a slur.

“Wherever you are not!” she calls back with a robotic sound in her voice.

Rocket watches as he strides away. And then he sees it pass by the Centaurian roughly.

Purple robes?

Silver, gleaming case?

Rocket stiffens and nearly drops his glass as he keeps his eyes locked onto the purple robed figure with wide eyes. That’s him. It has to be.

Rocket feels his stomach churn when the figure holds up a hand and shaking his head as he says, “No, I would not like a drink yet. I am waiting for a friend.”

Nice hand. Looks a lot like Rocket’s.

Rocket takes in a shaky breath and holds it for a little too long. Those fingers, long and adorned with sharp nails at the ends. The long, flowing arms of the robe reveal a similarly furry arm that Rocket knows from somewhere called the mirror.

And so they sit this way for five minutes. Rocket watching from afar, shocked but mostly intact. The other one is naive to the hunter that has been eyeing him for so long as he waits patiently with his metal case gleaming in hand.

When he turned in his seat to look at the door on the other side of the building, Rocket caught a look of his face.

It’s him. It’s Rocket.

Even the look on his face when he meets Rocket’s gaze is exactly the same. Mouth agape, eyes wide, a nervousness pouring out of it.

But scuttering off like that isn’t very mirror-like of Rocket’s replica.

Rocket rises quickly and knocks his drink over that he’d tried oh-so hard not to spill the first time, and makes haste as fast as he can to chase this creature. A chase scene was not something Rocket had expected.

Rocket loses him momentarily when he busts through the exit, but he catches sight of a purple robe rustling in the wind to his left. The raccoon snarls. Why’s he running? They should both be giving each other high fives, bro fists, maybe even hug!

Rocket wouldn’t do that last one, but it seems like a possibility.

“Hey! Stop!” Rocket yells out past the few plain looking citizens that aren’t a raccoon running on its two legs. “I wanna talk to ya! I don’t wanna take ya to Nova!”

The taller one persists, even picking up speed.

“You little dick,” Rocket mutters as he gets down on all fours and begins to scutter like a raccoon actually would. Although Rocket knows he looks like an animal, a ridiculous animal with a cannon folded carefully on his back, it is much faster for himself to run this way.

The purple figure stops for a moment when he comes to a dead end. Rocket sees him give Rocket a wide eyed look. Rocket thinks he has this companion finally cornered. But then he bolts between two buildings.

“Are you kiddin’ me?!”

The sound of something crashing comes from the dark alley not even a few seconds later. “Gah! Impossible!”

Rocket twists into the alley way quickly, and finally gets a good look at his target, now without the hood covering his entire head and sprawled out on the wet alley ground after tripping over his long cloak and smacking his temple off of the dumpster.

He’s much taller than Rocket, but his features are nearly identical. Same eyes, same snout, same whiskers. Even the way his fur seems to be set on his face is an uncanny resemblance between Rocket and this imposter. The white above his eyebrows, the darker shade beneath his eyes. It’s all the same.

Even the snarl of frustration on his face looks like Rocket’s just gazing into a mirror.

“You… You, you’re like me,” Rocket says with a point of his finger. “Ya-ya gotta be one’a my kind, right? Have t’ be.”

“I am terribly sorry to inform you that I am-” There is the sound of something sizzling, and the raccoon’s head bends in an unnatural manner before it sets itself straight again. “-am not of the procyon species that was modified on Halfworld.”

Rocket is taken aback by the unnatural head movement, but he thinks nothing of it. “Of course ya are! Ya look just like me! Same face, same-same eyes, same everything!” Rocket throws his hands in the air. “I don’t-”

“I am a Recorder.”

The silence is so dead that the air around Rocket goes cold. “Ya-ya mean that other ‘R’ word, right?” Rocket says. “Buddy, we got a species, and it’s-”  
“Recorder JX-023.”

And what happens next tears Rocket’s heart to pieces.

The imposter rises to his feet slowly and drops the purple robe from over his body. Beneath it is not the furry chest that Rocket had expected to see. It is a body of chrome, an alloy that is impenetrable. The only places of any “fur” Rocket sees are on the legs, the arms, and the face and neck.

And then those begin to slowly fade away as well.

“It is a manner of cloaking known as a ‘hologuise’,” the voice that was once much like Rocket’s begins to turn into something of its own as the legs begin to match the chest. “Normal Recorder Units only record specific events and people. Advanced Recorders like myself are capable of such a feat through the use of highly-technical holograms that are tangible. We can scan an individual, either through video or real life interaction, and take on their voice and form.” And the arms soon take their usual form.

“N-No,” Rocket says, shaking his head slightly as he watches the ‘fur’ slowly slip away. “Ya-Ya can’t be a bot. You’re like me! I-I ain’t alone, right?”

“I am pained to inform you, Rocket, Guardian of the Galaxy,” the bot says, “that I am not one of your species.”

And the raccoon face that Rocket knows so well disappears, revealing the face of a cautious looking green-eyed ‘bot.

“What the hell is your problem?!” Rocket wastes no time in leaping up and pinning the defenseless machine to the ground. “Why the hell would ya take my form?!”

“It-It was a job on part of the Kree!” the machine calls out beneath Rocket. “They insisted that I-I take your shape!”

“For what?!” Rocket’s voice cracks slightly at the end of ‘what’.

“To frame you! They hold a deep grudge against Ronan’s killers and wished for-”  
“Shuddup!” Rocket slugs one across the machine’s face. “This-This is bullshit!”

“Actually,” a robotic hand, a hand not like Rocket’s, raises a finger to point out that, “this is assault and battery.”

Another slug across the face.

“The Kree crave the Iso-8 mineral because it is a rare resource!” the Recorder says with another disturbing head twist. “Iso-8 is a mineral that can be used for-for-for-the Kree-Skrull war took place from-”  
“Shut up!” Rocket repeats his previous action, this time with much more force put into his knuckles. Rocket opens his mouth to say something to his imposter, to the machine that has thrown all of his hope down a well. But all that comes is another punch across the face.

And another.

And **_another_**.

 _ **And another**_.

* * *

 

Being woken up in the middle of the night by a panicked flora colossus is absolutely frustrating. But when they’d heard that Rocket was nowhere to be found by Groot, everyone went on a mad hunt for the raccoon. Peter, who was the hardest to get out of bed, insisted that maybe Rocket was just curled up somewhere unusual.

But when he’d heard that Rocket wasn’t in any of his usual unusual spots (the couch, the pilot’s chair, under the table, on the table, near the table, etc.), he jumped up and started looking as well.

“Is it a plausible conclusion,” Drax states roughly, “that Rocket has left the ship? We are stationed on Knowhere for unknown reasons.”

“It’s late, Drax,” Peter says as he pulls the flat, uncomfortable couch from the wall and looks behind it. “I highly doubt Rocket got up for a late night drink. The little dude sleeps like crazy. Rocket?”

“Peter, there is no reason to look behind the couch,” Gamora says with her hands on her hips. “He is smaller than the rest of us, but there is no way he could fit behind it.”

“Well, I mean-”

“And it does seem possible that Rocket left,” Gamora observes. “Who else parked the ship after setting coordinates for Knowhere?”

Peter shrugs and pushes the cushioned seat back up against the wall. “Doesn’t hurt to start checkin’ everywhere.”

“Than perhaps we should check the surrounding bars?” Drax suggests.

“I’m not even wearing pants,” Peter says in his defense.

“I am _**Groot**_ ,” the tree demands with an angry look. _Put pants on, you selfish human._

“Groot, chill,” Peter says, backing away from the tree with his hands up. “That was not a very Groot-y tone and I don’t like it when you get that-”

The hatch to enter the ship opens and everyone’s gaze flicks right to the direction of the sound. And a few moments later, the man--er, **_raccoon_** of the hour strides into the common room and sits on the stair leading toward the upper deck.

And everyone can see that something is wrong with him.

In one hand is a silver case, the other hand holding a purple piece of clothing. Rocket’s head hangs low, his tail laying flat on, his ears not as perky as usual. His shoulders are slumped and he walks with awful posture. Rocket looks to them, but only for a moment before he keeps striding toward the stairs leading to the upper deck and plopping down ungracefully on the bottom two. One for his ass, one for his feet.

“Rocket?” Peter says. “Where’d you go?”

Rocket throws the silver case in hand onto the ground. “He was a fuckin’ ‘bot, Quill.” Rocket rubs an eye with the heel of his palm after balling the purple robe up and tossing it to the side. “Just a frickin’ ‘bot.” Rocket massages his knuckles on one hand and then the other. They’re in pain, and it looks like one of his hands may be sliced open like a thousand tiny papercuts. Is he... what'd he do?

“Who was a bot?” Drax questions. “Friend, it is unlike you to be in this type of mood. You-”  
“The guy like me,” Rocket says a little louder, “was a Recorder workin’ for the Kree. Don’t know why they needed Iso-8, but he was just a frickin’ pawn for ‘em.” Rocket looks up to Groot, to Drax, to Gamora, to Quill. “So much for findin’ my people.”

“Rocket, we-”

“I’m goin’ to bed.” Rocket leaves no chance for Peter to get another word in. He takes his slumped shoulders and low hanging head toward his bedroom with feet dragging after him. His tail, which usually swings about when he walks, just drags along with his feet.

The door to his bedroom slides open and slams shut right after Rocket pads through. He closes his eyes, takes in a shaky breath, and leans up against the door and sits with his knees pulled close to his body.

“It’s… that’s it.” Rocket doesn’t know why he’s talking. There’s no one here to speak to. He’s alone in this room. No shock there. Groot’s oit in the other room, probably still staring at Rocket’s now shut bedroom door and giving it a sad look. Why is he talking to himself? Pain? Pity? Maybe he’s just insane.

That’s it. He’s insane. Insane for thinking maybe he has someone out in the galaxy like himself, insane for believing he could find his people. Rocket knows there isn’t anything like him out in the big, wide universe. He’s one of a kind. And usually he prides himself in that fact, keeps his head up when he realizes he is “rare” like Iso-8.

The difference between Rocket and Iso-8, though, is that Iso-8 is often looked for and often thought to be important. A bipedal raccoon with a gun and a smart mouth? No one looks for that and cares enough if they find one.

“That’s it,” Rocket mumbles, his jaw clenching up and his throat closing up. He looks up at the light of his bedroom. “It’s over.”

At least Nova will get what they wanted back in their hands and back to Tusky McFurryFace.

But how does that help Rocket?

Exactly.

 ** _It_ doesn't**.

The reality of the raccoon replica hits him like a train. It was just a Recorder, a machine that was sent by the Kree. He doesn’t sob, he doesn’t cry out. But he does let it take him under for only a moment.

Instead of reacting with tears, Rocket rises to his feet, whips the gun off of his back, and slams it so hard against the wall that he swears it cracks. He snarls violently, pulling at the hairs on his head and slapping himself in the face. “Idiot! Fuckin’ idiot!” he says before he kicks the bedpost so hard his toe pops.

That hurt pretty damn bad, actually. But Rocket’s too fumed to really notice.

_**Slam.** _

_**Slam.** _

_**Slam.** _

_**Slam.** _

It’s a wonder his weapon hasn’t shattered into a thousand pieces at this point.

“Just… grrr!” Rocket hurdles the weapon at the door and lets the loud clang from the impact ring in the air as he pants for breath like he’s out in space without a suit on.

And after a minute of standing with a radiant wave of anger spiking out of Rocket, his breathing has finally calmed down, and he’s just… tired. Tired of getting his hopes up, tired of thinking that there’s hope for himself in finding others like this. He’s devoted so much time, so much energy into finding this guy. And in the end, it’s just a robot with a hologram surrounding his entire body.

What a catch.

Slowly and sadly, Rocket changes out of his orange attire and into a sleeveless black top and orange shorts. Sleep sounds nice right now.

But when Rocket gets into bed, all he does is stare blankly at the wall. His head feels full, but his heart feels empty. His stomach is sick, his limbs are weak. He feels like an utter waste of space, he feels like all these weeks of wasting time were all because he is a naive, mangry creature, desperate for someone like him to share his pain.

He retreats into sleep, but only after an hour of quiet pity and self hatred.

* * *

 

Rocket is reserved from the team for the next week.

He only comes out to eat, and even when he does, he eats alone in his room and he eats very little. The team takes the plates that he leaves outside his door as evidence of the raccoon eating absolutely nothing. Well, little to nothing, anyways.

And then there is the plate that Groot picks up with a frown. It’s the time when the slab of trocklen meat is only bitten off at one end and the fruit Groot supplied is untouched.

The fruit looking untouched is especially disturbing. Rocket likes fruits. Rocket likes the fruits Groot grows off of his body at least once every month. He eats them right up, practically inhaling the sweet, green-as-Gamora’s-skin parcel of pure goodness the second he sights them.

That’s when Groot decides to enter the room, even though Rocket has lashed out at everyone who has knocked.

Groot doesn’t knock, but Rocket doesn’t lash out this time.

In fact, Rocket looks like he has no energy to lash out. He’s sitting on the bed with his legs crossed underneath of him, still wearing the orange pants and sleeveless top. He hasn’t changed his clothes in days. Rocket’s eyes look bloodshot, out of depth, tired, his fur in a similarly terrible condition, sticking out wildly in some areas and flattening down in others.

“Ya were right,” Rocket’s voice cracks. “Ya were right the entire time. You told me it was a stupid idea, but… here I am.” Groot frowns at Rocket, but the raccoon doesn’t give the pitiful look any reaction. “I’m a fuckin’ idiot for thinkin’ that there was another guy like me.”

“I am Groot,” Groot says as if he is admitting defeat. _But it was a noble effort, Rocket. I was wrong to tear you down that way_.

“Noble effort my furry  _ **ass**_.” Rocket gives a shaky sigh and slumps his shoulders even further. “Why’re ya here? Ya gonna tell me ya told me so? That I’m a jackass?”

Groot shakes his head. “I am Groot.” _I have not seen you for many days aside from when your hand slips your plate out from the door._

“I come out to get my food, too.”

“I am Groot.” _But you do not give me a moment to say hello._

Rocket blinks and gives Groot a blank look. He shrugs as he says, “So?” with little force in his words.

“I am Groot?” _So?_ The tree’s brow knits with frustration. “I am Groot!” _I am your friend. I am worried about you, Rocket! Look at you_.

“Yeah. Look at me. Take it in. One of a kind.” Rocket gives an odd smile, his eyes setting themselves in a sad look. “Rare. One of a kind. Ain’t no thing like _**me**_ … ‘cept…” Rocket can’t even bring it to himself to finish the statement. The words hitch in his throat and choke him before he swallows hard and begins again. “Never gonna find anything like me in the galaxy. Just me. All on my own…” Rocket falls silent, swallows hard again. He opens his mouth to say something, but a stifled breath is all that comes out before he shuts his mouth quickly and clenches his jaw tightly.

There is a brief silence. “I am Groot?” Rocket?

And then Rocket begins to sob.

Uncontrollably, painfully, terribly.

“I don’t got anyone else. No one’s s’pposed to be alone in the galaxy, G-Groot,” Rocket says through the hot tears trailing down his dark-furred cheeks. “We’re all supposed t’ have people, livin’ or dead. But all I got-got is me? How’s that fair?!”

Groot remains silent as he watches Rocket slowly curl into a pitiful ball.

“N-No one else like me’s out there. Just me. Just some sick, lonely little thing. Just-”

“I am Groot.” _My friend. You are my friend._

Rocket shuts his sharp-toothed mouth and looks at Groot with confusion.

“I am Groot?” _Do you **really** think you are alone in this universe, Rocket?_

The procyon is silent.

“I am Groot.” _Because you are not. Although your species is very much out of reach, you are not alone._

Rocket takes in a shaky breath and relaxes slightly. Good. This is working.

“I… am… Groot.” _Your family is here, on this ship. There is no point in looking for a lost member of your species when you have all that you need here_.

Rocket sniffs and looks down at his feet. “I just…”

Groot shuffles toward Rocket’s bed and kneels down on his knees. “I am Groot,” he smiles as he rests his head on the edge of Rocket’s bed. _Your people do not have to look like you, Rocket. Your people have to be the people you choose._

Rocket looks at Groot with a firm expression. “W-Where’d ya hear that from?”

“I am Groot.” _It is just a common piece of wisdom, Rocket_. Groot reaches out a long finger and prods Rocket to lift his head up. “I am Groot.” _You are my people. And you are not made of bark and plant-like qualities. You are Rocket. You have fur and ears on top of your head. You speak in very choice swear words and are a rather sarcastic ass when you wish to be. You are Rocket. One of a kind._

Rocket manages the tiniest hint of a smile.

“I am Groot.” _There is nothing like you except you. Because you are my friend. And maybe one day you will come across another being much like yourself. I hope you do. But do know that I am- **we are** -here for you._

Rocket gives a tiny nod and wipes his eyes. “Got me cryin’ up in here, Groot.” The raccoon sniffs again and gives Groot a punch to the shoulder. “Ya know how to pick me up, though, buddy.”

“I am Groot!” the tree says with a cheerful smile. _That is what I am here for!_

And even though the raccoon was a replica created by a mysterious Recorder, Rocket has still managed to realize who is real people are.

They’ve been waiting outside his room for far too long.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Recorder - In the novel "Rocket Raccoon and Groot Steal The Galaxy!" a similar Recorder is the main source of all of the book's problems. Recorders do exactly what it sounds like - they record events in history. I gave it my own twist and made it so this specific Recorder, a sort of apologetic rogue, can take the form of beings he's scanned through the use of the holo-guise technology.  
> \- Holo-guise - Stole the concept from Ratchet and Clank.
> 
> Groot's too nice.
> 
> More Notes Added on 1/22/2014:
> 
> \- 80% of this was inspired by the first story arc of Rocket Raccoon by Skottie Young. Course a certain dickhead of a rabbit's the culprit instead of a simple 'bot.  
> \- 'Tusky' - Inspired that white-furred dude from the prison in RR #2.  
> \- The title comes from a specific sentence near the end where I used an unnecessary amount'a alliteration by accident. So many R words, so little space.  
> \- R words are important lately.  
> \- Look for another one soon... #kysir
> 
> Comments are appreciated.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> unoduotrey


End file.
